


Monday, Monday

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Addiction, Guardian Angels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1659443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series in eight parts that are reflective of the songs that inspired them, one for each day of the week (and an eighth day too).</p><p>"The first time Dean met his guardian angel Castiel, he was almost dead."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monday, Monday

**Author's Note:**

> [Monday, Monday](http://youtu.be/h81Ojd3d2rY) by The Mamas & The Papas
> 
> STICK WITH IT TO THE END. I promise it's not all doom and gloom.
> 
> As always, any and all feedback is welcome, and you can follow my [author tumblr](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com) for all my writing stuff and things (and ficlets!)

The first time Dean met his guardian angel Castiel, he was almost dead. 

He was 16 years old, involuntarily emancipated from his foster home, ripped away from his little brother Sam, the only human on this earth who mattered to him. Dean was alone on the streets, doing everything he could to make a buck and feed himself. Or, more accurately, make a lot of bucks and enjoy his newly formed bad habits.

Dean can fully admit that his mind is wired differently than most people's. He has an addictive personality, a manic mind, and everything he feels is either the best thing one could ever feel or the absolute worst. Dean is comprised entirely of fire and ice. 

There is no middle ground to be found within the tortured soul of Dean Winchester.

This is why the concept of a "gateway drug" never appealed to him. He had smoked weed a few times as when he was younger, but cocaine never interested him, nor painkillers, nor any other manner of uppers and downers that layman druggies try to pedal.

Dean went straight for worst best drug in the history of the human experience: heroin.

At first, Dean was unwise. He took too much too fast on his first go-round, and woke up the next day in a hospital, surrounded by his ex-foster family, who all looked less concerned for him and more irritated at their burdensome obligation of still caring for him. Sam was the only person in his life to ever give him any sympathy.

And over the years, all that sympathy finally ran out.

Dean dismissed them all, scoffed at their irritation, and disappeared the moment they looked away, spending the next several months chasing down the most important part of his short-lived heroin trip: his guardian angel, the hot tax accountant guy with eyes the dark blue color of the zenith at noon on a clear summer day. 

When Dean shot up that first time, all he could see were those glorious blue eyes, like staring into an infinite abyss, the expanse of Castiel's mind unfathomable to Dean's comparatively tiny mortality. 

Castiel approached Dean, who was wrecked on a dank mattress in an abandoned building on Third Street, staring into the broken glass skylights above him and trying to find the Big Dipper, so that he could finally be led back home.

His mind had started really slipping then, when he let himself think of his mother's apple pies cooling on the window sill, and the sound of the engines his father liked to fix revving in the garage. He thought about the way Sammy used to giggle at the funny faces Dean made at him. And lastly, he thought about his darkest moment, when he looked onto the terrified faces of both his parents, engulfed in flames and bidding him a silent, permanent goodbye as Dean fled, helpless, Sammy crying in his arms.

Dean wanted to go home. Dean was ready to go home.

But Castiel found him instead.

In Dean's mind, their first moment of contact was brief. Dean had felt a fluttering of wings around him that helped to lift away the aching pressure building in his chest, the slowing of his frozen heart as it yearned to pump the poison out of his veins. Castiel knelt beside him, shadows of massive wings taking up the entirety of the large decrepit room. "Hello, Dean."

Dean couldn't speak. He could only gasp ragged breaths and let loose the dam of tears he had held at bay for 16 years, pools of saline flooding around him, drowning him, pulling him ever downward. 

But Castiel held out his hand for Dean to take, so Dean, hesitant, took Castiel's hand in his, and their fingers entwined. 

Cas pulled him up, out of the ocean of the tears that threatened to drown him, out of the fire that took the ground from under his feet, out of the immense depths of his own suffering.

Dean stood, and stared into Cas's intense gaze. There were no words exchanged, only understanding. Dean knew who Cas was, what he was, and why he was there. He knew Cas wanted him, that he was being saved because he was special, that he was capable of unknown greatness.

Now, Dean draws massive angel wings sweeping across his biology notes as he reminisces about his Castiel, king and god and owner of his heart. Biology is his least favorite class on his least favorite day of the week: Monday, Monday. Can't trust Monday.

Dean passes the aching moments in biology class, the slow ticking of seconds toward when he'll see Cas again, and lets his mind wander into his memory of the second time they met.

Dean was 17, shooting up for the fifth time in his short life. He was in an expensive hotel room, about to get tied up by some john who offered him payment in the form of a potential road to Castiel. The last three times Dean had shot up were unsuccessful, only landing him with a high a few days long and track marks that would leave scars. 

Dean had a good feeling about that night.

His john, some creepy and aptly-named old dude named Lucifer, was gentlemanly enough to freebase the goods for him, fill up his syringe, and gently give Dean exactly what he asked for.

Dean doesn't remember much after that. A sense of floating, of being pressed into, of choking back sobs of pain and pleasure. 

Then he felt cold, and used, and alone, stranded in a dark room, until the soft fluttering of wings engulfed him and a warmth spread across his chest.

"Hello, Dean," said a pained, dark voice near his ear. "Please, stop this."

Dean turned toward Cas, the silk of wings rolling underneath him as Dean breathed in the smell of sunshine on a sweet spring day. "Cas," he moaned. "You came back."

"Of course I did," Castiel replied, with a stroke of his hand down Dean's cheek.

Dean curled into Cas's embrace, huge and safe and comforting. "I missed you."

Cas sighed. "I know, Dean. I've missed you too. But you don't need a death wish to see me. You need only to pray."

Dean opened his eyes to look up at Cas, and was met with Cas's ferocious blue gaze, staring at him with love, and sympathy, and patience. "How do I pray?" he asked, tentative.

Castiel smiled, moving his thumb slowly over Dean's bottom lip. "However you want."

In response, Dean reached up to run his his fingertips down the side Castiel's face, and press a kiss lightly to his lips.

Cas gasped in surprise, hesitating before finally kissing back. 

Dean pressed his body closer to Castiel, hooking a leg over Cas's hip and carding his fingers through his hair. He took Castiel's lip in his teeth and sucked on it gently, licking across it and then letting go to press kisses up and down his jawline. He wanted to show Castiel his appreciation and admiration. He wanted to show Castiel that he was worth saving.

Cas reluctantly let go of Dean and retreated his wings. "I have to go now, Dean. I'll be listening for your prayers. Please, be well." He pressed another soft kiss to Dean's lips and disappeared in a flurry of wings.

Dean checked into a methadone clinic the next day. The next month, he got his GED. Three months later, he enrolled in a community college and turned 18. And only then, six months from the time he had last seen Castiel, did Dean pray for the first time in his life, after having finally convinced himself he was worth saving.

Castiel had appeared immediately beside Dean's Impala. It was a warm summer night, and they stood in the parking lot of the community center where Dean had been living.

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Castiel crowded his space, taking Dean's face between his hands and kissing him deeply. After several moments, he pulled back and looked at Dean with a smile on his face. "Hello, Dean."


End file.
